_Phillipson_ (_moved_). It's the first I've heard of it, my lady. It must have been after I came up. If I'd only known he'd behave like _that_! _Lady Maisie_ (_instructively_). You see how loyal he is to _you_. And now, I suppose, he will find he has been supplanted by this new acquaintance--some smooth-tongued, good-for-nothing valet, I dare say? _Phillipson_ (_injured_). Oh, my lady, indeed he wasn't a _man_! But there was nothing serious between us--at least, on _my_ side--though he certainly did go on in a very sentimental way himself. However, he's left the Court by now, that's _one_ comfort! (_To herself._) I wish now I'd said nothing about him to Jem. If he was to get asking questions downstairs---- He always _was_ given to jealousy--reason or none! [_A tap is heard at the door._ _Lady Rhoda_ (_outside_). Maisie, may I come in? if you've done your hair, and sent away your maid. (_She enters._) Ah, I see you haven't. _Lady Maisie._ Don't run away, Rhoda; my maid has just done. You can go now, Phillipson. _Lady Rhoda_ (_to herself, as she sits down_). Phillipson! So _that's_ the young woman that funny vet man prefers to _us_! H'm, can't say I feel flattered! _Phillipson_ (_to herself, as she leaves the room_). This must be the Lady Rhoda, who was making up to my Jem! He wouldn't have anything to say to her, though; and, now I see her, I am not surprised at it! [_She goes. A pause._ _Lady Rhoda_ (_crossing her feet on the fender_). Well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', _can_ we? [Illustration: "WELL, WE CAN'T COMPLAIN OF HAVIN' HAD A DULL EVENIN', CAN WE?"] _Lady Maisie_ (_taking a hand-screen from the mantelshelf_). Not altogether. Has--anything fresh happened since I left? _Lady Rhoda._ Nothing particular. Archie apologised to this new man in the billiard-room. For the booby trap. We all told him he'd _got_ to. And Mr. Carrion Bear, or Blundershell, or whatever he calls himself--_you_ know--was so awf'lly gracious and condescendin' that I really thought poor dear old Archie would have wound up his apology by punchin' his head for him. Strikes me, Maisie, that mop-headed minstrel boy is a decided change for the worse. Doesn't it you? _Lady Maisie_ (_toying with the screen_). How do you _mean_, Rhoda? _Lady Rhoda._ I meantersay I call Mr. Spurrell---- Well, he's real, anyway--he's a _man_, don't you know. As for the other, so _feeble_ of him missin' his train like he did, and turnin' up too late for everything! Now, _wasn't_ it? _Lady Maisie._ Poets _are_ dreamy and unpractical and unpunctual--it's their nature.